


Living the Dream

by oceanbluecas, sixxstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Kinda but not really), Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dean POV, Divergent from 12x12 Stuck in the Middle (With You), Djinn fic, F/M, M/M, spncasefic, tw: multiple suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanbluecas/pseuds/oceanbluecas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixxstiel/pseuds/sixxstiel
Summary: Djinn are nothing new to Dean. He’s been in this situation before, except this time, heknowsit’s a hallucination. Here, monsters are nearly extinct, loved ones are alive again, and there’s a new generation of hunters in training. Everything is perfect, but perfect isn’t something Dean’s comfortable with. He sees Sam’s smile and feels Cas’s touch, and thinks of the eerie visions of another reality, one where he dangles helplessly in the dark, a ready meal for his captors. He’s determined to escape from the dream, because it’s a lie. It’s not real. Or is it?





	Living the Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN Case Fic Bang](http://spncasefic.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr. Many thanks to the mods for running this fantastic challenge. 
> 
> The art for this fic was done by the lovely amberdreams, who is an amazingly skilled artist. You can find her [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams), [here](http://amberdreams.livejournal.com/), and [here](http://amberdreams1960.tumblr.com/). The art masterpost is [here](http://amberdreams.livejournal.com/496509.html).
> 
> Lastly, I don't know what I'd do without my betas. They're awesome. Thanks, [yugokitari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yugokitari), [GeekPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekPrincess), and [Areiton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton). <3

The barrel of a .45 is pressed against Dean’s temple. It’s his usual gun, comforting in the familiarity of its grip in his shaking hand. The safety is off, the metal is cool against his skin, and his finger is on the trigger. His bedroom is quiet around where he sits alone on the floor, back pressed up against the side of the bed. He takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw.  
   
He pulls the trigger.  
   
The gun fires, a loud _bang_ filling the air. There’s icy hot pain in his head and he’s thrown sideways, landing hard on the concrete. Warm blood slides down his face, and briefly, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.  
   
Then he blinks, and the pain is gone. His face is dry. He’s still on the floor and the gun is still in his limp hand, but the bullet casing is nowhere to be seen.  
   
Dean sits up and touches his temple. There’s no wound. Checking the .45’s chamber, he finds all the bullets in place like he _hadn’t_ just fired one into his skull. He curses and checks everything again, to no avail.  
   
Standing without even a modicum of dizziness, Dean slumps down onto the edge of his bed in frustration. Like always, the mattress beneath him is memory foam, but everything else about the bed is different—the size is too big, the pillows too plush, the sheets too smooth, and the comforter too heavy.  
   
The rest of his bedroom is much the same. It’s definitely his. He can see the bare bones of how it _should_ be under everything else. That’s his desk, and those are his photos, but all that was on the desk’s surface has changed, and the photos are now framed, sitting neatly atop a dresser he’s never seen before. The laundry basket is new, too, but the clothes in it are also his—plaid, denim, and flannel, just like the innards of his smaller basket back home.  
   
This place, whatever it’s supposed to be, is _not_ home.  
   
The silence is shattered by a knock on the door. It’s pushed open before Dean can form a response, his mother not bothering to wait for one. She steps inside, all at once the same and not. Her hair is long again, pulled into a sloppy ponytail, and her smile is genuine.  
   
“Are you okay?” Mary asks. “I heard a noise.”  
   
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Dean huffs, turning away. She has laugh lines around her eyes, and her smile is easier than he’s seen it since his childhood. It hurts to see.  
   
A hand lands on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring. “You sure, honey? You seem down.”  
   
“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps, and whether this is actually his mother or not, he still feels guilty about it when she pulls back and frowns.  
   
“Clearly not,” she says, sitting down beside him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”  
   
“No, I don’t,” Dean growls, ignoring the way her eyes widen at his tone.  
   
“Dean, I—”  
   
“I _said_ no!” he barks, jumping to his feet and throwing his arms up. He doesn’t want her to push for an answer. He doesn’t have one to _give_ —at least, nothing that’s not completely and utterly pointless. He’s supposed to be with Sam and Cas, eating shitty takeout in a shitty motel, just like any other night. He’s not supposed to be here in some pseudo-reality with picture perfect mothers and an Ikea bedroom collection.  
   
Mary’s forehead wrinkles as she furrows her brow, but it only brings her younger appearance to Dean’s immediate attention. This Mary has lived a better life than his own Mary. She stands and puts her hands on her hips, and uses the mom-voice he hasn’t heard in decades.  
   
“You will not take that tone with me, young man,” she says, throwing him back to memories of ill-begotten sweets before dinner and staying up past bedtime. “If there’s a problem, we’ll fix it, but you won’t take it out on others, understand?”  
   
The idea of this fake version of Mary Winchester “fixing” this djinn-fueled nightmare is laughable, so that’s what Dean does. With a sick sense of macabre humor and a dash of irony, he laughs. In the real world, the djinn is probably laughing, too.  
   
Mary is less amused. “What is _wrong_ with you, Dean? Did you get hexed or—”  
   
He waves a dismissive hand at her, wiping his eyes. “The djinn case in Phoenix hasn’t been going too well, apparently,” he says, and it’s the truth. They’d only been there for two days, investigating a small string of weird deaths until they concluded djinn were at the center of it. Cas and Sam were in planning mode with a side of research, and Dean had readily volunteered to fetch dinner (and more beer). He’d barely climbed out of his car at the local taco joint when a small child had approached him, frantic and pleading for help.  
   
Looking back, Dean’s not sure why he followed her. She looked like a girl scout in her khaki skirt and pigtails, and maybe that’s what gave him such a sense of security. Maybe it was the broad daylight and the busy street nearby. Either way, he walked right into a trap, and now he’s here in a dream world and monster chow in reality. It’s not a new concept, and he’s been in this situation before—only, last time, killing his dream-self had worked to wake himself up. This time, not so much.  
   
It’s a little alarming.  
   
Dream-Mary knows none of this, and asks, bafflement clear in her tone, “What djinn case?”  
   
Dean rolls his eyes. “Never mind.” Of course this version of Mary would play ignorant. “Forget I said anything.”  
   
She watches him silently, assessing him, and Dean lets her, unconcerned with her opinion. He’s got more important things to worry about, like finding a way out before the djinn bleed him dry. He remembers the little girl and how cold her hand was in his as she led him down the alley. The way she’d smiled up at him, lips twisting into a vicious inhuman smile, gave him goosebumps. There’d been no time to react. Arms had clamped down around his torso, immobilizing him. He didn’t see who they belonged to, but due to the feel of the body pressed against his back, he assumes it’d been an adult.  
   
The third djinn was barely out of its teen years, appearing out of the shadows to run her hands seductively up his chest. They settled on the skin of his neck, and after a couple of the standard monster one-liners, her tattoos appeared all along her face and arms. There’d been a flash of blue, then pitch black, and then his room that wasn’t his room.  
   
Mary’s hands cup Dean’s cheeks, simultaneously bringing him back to the moment and reminding him of the teenage djinn. Her eyes catch his. “Did you have a nightmare?” she asks. “Dean, you haven’t left the bunker in days. There hasn’t been a djinn sighting in years. You’re _safe_.” Her thumbs run over his cheekbones, and he can see her straining to make him see reason. She repeats, softly, “You’re safe, Dean.”  
   
Dean swallows. Real or not, she looks and sounds exactly like his mother, but she also doesn’t. She’s almost too perfect, and that decides it for him. He’s not dealing with one of those fear-eating djinn—he can’t be, not with how wonderful and happy this version of Mary is—so this world is undoubtedly safe enough. In all likelihood, the largest threat to himself here is, well, himself.  
   
And he’ll keep trying to find a way out.  
   
Regardless, he doesn’t want to needlessly cause his mother distress, even if she’s some skewed, wishes-come-true version of herself—not unless he needs to. She and anyone else here may be helpful in figuring out why the tried and true suicide-to-escape method isn’t working.  
   
“You’re right,” Dean lies, stepping back out of her reach. “It was just a bad dream. I’m okay.”  
   
Dream-Mary is easier to convince than his real mother. Her smile returns. “Good. You hungry? I was about to go scrounging for lunch, maybe see if the others left any food in the kitchen.”  
   
Dean gives the necessary chuckle and agrees, ready to explore and try to find anything useful. He follows Mary out into the hallway, abruptly and all at once made aware of the sheer amount of _noise_ in the bunker. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s not loud. It’s just there, a strange cacophony of activity all around him, like the buzzing of bees in their hive. It’s natural, almost a white noise in the background. He hears footsteps and voices, shuffling papers and gunshots echoing from the shooting range, and the growl of an engine coming from the direction of the garage.  
   
When they enter the war room, Dean is shocked by all the faces he sees. People are everywhere, some recognizable and some not. This room and the adjacent library are busier than he’s ever seen them. Alicia and Max Bane are bent over the map table, scrying for something with a pendant while Lorraine Fox sits nearby, flipping through a file with a bored expression. On the other end of the table is Eileen, hands flying at breakneck speed as she has a video call on her laptop. As they pass the library entrance, Dean nearly runs into Mick (of all people), who rushes by with an apologetic smile and a phone pressed against his ear. Dean glances into the library itself as they walk by and sees a whole slew of hunters taking advantage of the files and books. Even the sheriffs are there, Donna laughing heartily while Jody rolls her eyes and tries not to smile.  
   
In the kitchen, they walk in on Alex and Josephine chatting over a shared bag of Ruffles. They fall silent as Mary and Dean enter, then break into laughter and scurry off, taking the chips with them.  
   
“What the hell was _that_ about?” Dean wonders aloud. “More importantly, why are they here?”  
   
“I’ll take ‘the kitchen has food’ for 500, Alex,” Mary says, eyebrow raised. She begins pulling sandwich ingredients out of the refrigerator. “Give them a break. They’ve been busy all day with training. They’ve got their last exams coming up, then their first hunts, and you know Bobby isn’t going easy on them.”  
   
Dean balks at her. Training? Exams? _Bobby?_  
   
Mary goes on, slapping ham onto bread. “I had to break up an argument between Claire and Krissy just last night. I’ve never seen them fight like that. And this morning, I found Aiden asleep in the war room, using a spell book as a pillow, the poor kid.”  
   
“They’re here, too?” Dean asks, taken aback.  
   
Now Mary looks at him, eyes narrowed. “They _live_ here, honey. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or something?”  
   
Dean blinks. Right. He’s gotta play along.  
   
“I’m fine,” Dean says, reaching for the bread to start his own sandwich. He might as well take advantage of the perfect-world food. He listens to Mary talk about the progress the kids are making as he eats, appreciating the meal. He notes the disappearance of that underlying smell of mold in the kitchen. It’d been getting worse as of late, yet he still couldn’t find the source. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the clean air, and swallows his last bite. Conversationally, he asks, “Since we’re training the next generation of hunters—”  
   
Everything tilts.  
   
Dean’s vision goes blurry as he stumbles back, hip slamming into the counter. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut with the flare of resulting pain. When he opens them, he’s in his motel room. No—it’s not his motel room, but one just like it. The space is dark, the only light coming from between a small gap in the window curtains, tinged red from the neon sign outside. The digital clock on the nightstand matches, reading a quarter past eleven.  
   
There’s a shuffling noise to his left and a giggle to his right. A shadow passes in front of the window, momentarily sending the room into pitch black. Something else slides by in his peripheral. A third scuttles by right in front of him, startling him. He jerks and finds himself bound, arms raised above his head and tied to a hook hanging from the ceiling. He’s unable to do more than brush the toe of his boots against the floor, and he can’t feel his wrists. He opens his mouth to cry out, and—  
   
The world is bright again, and Dean blinks against it. Mary is cleaning up her lunch, and the quiet sounds of a crowded bunker return in a rush to Dean’s ears. His hands are curled over the edge of the counter top, knuckles white.  
   
“ _You’re_ not,” his mother is saying, “That’d be disastrous.”  
   
Dean stares at her, not comprehending. “What?”  
   
“The kids,” Mary says, popping the tab on a can of Pepsi, “You’re not training them. We’ve talked about this. Your hunting style is too reckless. It wouldn’t be good to pass that on. Bobby’s got it covered.”  
   
Just like that, Bobby and Rufus enter the room.  
   
“And where am I in this equation?” Rufus grumbles, jerking a thumb at Bobby. “It ain’t just this old coot teachin’ those brats.”  
   
Mary rolls her eyes. “You’re too hard on them, Rufus.”  
   
Bobby looks affronted. “And I ain’t?”  
   
The three continue to heckle each other while Dean watches, unable to do anything but gawk at them. Mary’s resurrection happened months ago, and he still has trouble getting used to it. Seeing her with Bobby and Rufus is like two entirely separate parts of his life colliding. There had been a time when he had a mother, and then he had Bobby, and then his mother again. The three of them standing there, casually teasing and bickering like it’s no big deal, makes Dean’s chest clench tight and not want to let go.  
   
“I—” Dean starts, drawing their attention. “Is Dad…?”  
   
Mary’s gaze softens. “What about him, honey?”  
   
Something within Dean swells, and he looks around the room. There’s nothing but the four of them and the remains of his meal on the table. “He’s not here, is he?”  
   
“What do you mean, ‘here’?” Bobby grunts, “You hit your head, boy?”  
   
“Your daddy’s ashes are buried out back with the rest o’ them,” Rufus says slowly, suspicious, “Did something happen? Do we need to go check?”  
   
“Oh,” Dean says, shuddering with emotion and fighting it. Bobby and Rufus are here, yet in this dream world, just like the last, he _still_ doesn’t wish his father back to life. He doesn’t know why, but twice now, he’s failed John’s memory.  
   
Guilt rises in his throat. He swallows thickly and forces a smile, waving his comment away. “No, it’s nothing. I was just having a moment, that’s all. I, uh, must be more out of it than I thought. I’m gonna go lay down, I think.”  
   
He backs out of the room, awkwardly laughing it off, and turns into the hallway, cursing himself internally. He needs to get the fuck out of here.  
   
Dean ends up in one of the filing rooms, digging through boxes that just last week he knew had the Men of Letter’s entire collection on djinn in them. All he’s finding now is shit on moon phases and their effect on rawhead mating habits, leaving him a little baffled. Why is there so _much_ on this topic?  
   
He hears footsteps approaching, so he’s already half-expecting someone to come in. When the sound stops somewhere behind him, he closes the box and pushes it back into its slot, then turns to face the newcomer.  
   
Kevin stares back at him, looking unimpressed.  
   
“Oh,” is all Dean can think to say. After Bobby and Rufus, another wishful resurrection shouldn’t be a surprise, but he’d put the entire thing out of his mind and been so focused on the task at hand—waking up—that he’s caught unaware.  
   
“’Hello’ to you, too,” Kevin scowls, not giving two shits about Dean’s mini-crisis, “You’re late, jackass. You coming or not?”  
   
“Yeah, right, I, uh—I forgot,” Dean stammers, wiping dusty hands off on his jeans. “Let’s go.” They’re halfway down the corridor—further into the bunker than Dean normally goes—when it occurs to him to ask. “Where are we going again?”  
   
Kevin stops in front of a door numbered 42 and pushes it open, rolling his eyes at Dean. “C’mon, man. We do this every Tuesday.”  
   
Dean’s jaw drops.  
   
The room is dimly lit by cheesy lava lamps and strings of lights hanging on the walls. Large cabinets and cluttered shelves (he’s pretty sure that’s a huge Godzilla figure back there) surround a large table in the center of the room. On the table is a mess of papers, dice, and a huge, extremely detailed diorama of a medieval map.  
   
Sitting at the head of the table is Frank Devereaux, glaring at Dean over the top of a battered copy of _Dungeons and Dragons: Dungeon Master’s Guide_. He impatiently taps his wrist watch at Dean, sending a clear message. Charlie and Ash sit side by side, snickering at him while—of all people—Becky Rosen and Ronald Reznick passionately discuss the merits of cyborgs and in-game time travel.  
   
Kevin pushes Dean into the empty seat next to Charlie, then sits at the other end of the table. Charlie gives Dean a juice box and a smile, bright and _alive_. “’Bout time, handmaiden.”  
   
Blinking away the wetness that wants to form in his eyes, Dean bites down on his inner cheek and internally screams a harsh self-reminder: _it’s not real_.  
   
Just because he knows it intellectually doesn’t mean his emotions aren’t all over the place with it. The faces around him are ones he thought he’d never see again. Charlie’s laugh, Ash’s belching, Kevin’s grumbling, Becky’s excitability, even Frank and Ronald arguing rules—it’s all music to his ears. He’s overjoyed to see them all again, but at the same time, memories of the last time he saw them plague his mind. Charlie, Kevin, and Ronald were corpses. Ash was a charred husk under a collapsed building. There’d been nothing left of Frank but blood splatters on computer screens. Becky’s still alive, but she’d been a sad and lonely woman, defeated as Dean left her, taking the only thing she wanted with him—Sam.  
   
“Okay, _fine_ ,” Ronald snaps, leaning back in his seat, “But this isn’t over! We’ll have a whole time-travel campaign, even if I gotta DM myself.”  
   
Frank snarks something Dean can’t make out, and then the game begins. Ronald quickly gets over his frustrations, eagerly playing a backup role to Becky’s mage. She eats up the painfully awkward flirting, giggling and doing things with her character that should _not_ be discussed in a room full of people. It distracts Dean from his brooding, though, and he finds himself laughing when Frank threatens to dole out elven STDs.  
   
Charlie and Kevin really get into the game, and Dean’s character is actually pretty badass. They follow Charlie into battle, letting out drunken war cries (juice boxes turned into beer at some point) and Dean allows himself to loosen up. A few hours playing along with the djinn’s world won’t hurt.  
   
When Dean wakes the next morning, he feels oddly content, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s not groggy or hungover, but he should be, and it makes all the difference.  
   
He lays in the too-large bed, staring at the ceiling and berating himself for poor decision making. Dean got over the initial shock of last night’s situation unreasonably quick, and it’d been downhill from there. The evening had been _perfect_. He knew he enjoyed LARPing because of the brief stint he had doing it with Charlie, but he had no idea how much of a geek he could really be—or how much fun it was. No wonder his dream-self did it weekly.  
   
It wasn’t all for nothing, though.  
   
Dean rolls over and faces the empty side of the bed, biting his lip and thinking over the things he’s learned about where he is. This bunker is still his home, but it plays a larger role than just that. It’s an active headquarters for the American Men of Letters, as well as a central hub for hunter activity. Both communities are part of an actual _organized network_. Some live in this bunker, some only stay when passing through, and others live permanently nearby and only come here for work. They collaborate on occasion with the British Men of Letters, sharing resources and information, but are mostly independent.  
   
The Americans—Men of Letters and hunters alike—do their jobs and they do it well. Monsters and demons are still around, but at a much smaller capacity as Dean’s used to. The network is kept busy, but there’s time for families and vacations, too.  
   
It’s mind blowing.  
   
Dean’s unsure if organization and cooperation at such a level would be possible in reality. The concept of hunters working cases out in the field while Men of Letters provide research, communication, and backup seems far-fetched to Dean. More so is the training everyone’s required to go through, and actually complies with, in preparation for shit-hitting-fan occurrences. Young hunters and researchers are so carefully taught that they’ll probably end up better than anyone currently in the field.  
   
He sighs. In theory, it seems possible, but he doubts it’d actually work. He might pitch the idea to his brother when he gets back. If anybody can do something with it, it’d be Sam.  
   
Dean reaches out to turn on his bedside lamp. It doesn’t come on, and he tries the switch again unsuccessfully. He grunts, throat sore, and goes to pull his arm back. He can’t. Looking up, he discovers both arms still strung above his head, holding his weight as he hangs limply from the ceiling. He tries to speak, managing only a small rasp before he _feels_ the pain coursing through him. He’s light headed, his vision blurry, but he recognizes the strange shadows around him.  
   
He’s in the motel room again, alone and hanging in place like a puppet. His head is tilted to the side, propped up on his arm. Within his immediate line of vision is a blood bag and his eyes follow the tubes from it to the IVs stuck in his arms. In the darkness, the blood in the tubes looks black. He can just make out the individual droplets falling into the bag from the tubes—from him.  
   
_Drip, drip, drip_.  
   
Dean coughs, and the vision is gone. He’s back in his bedroom. A photo of his brother, framed and sitting on the nightstand, stares back at him.  
   
_Sam._  
   
Of course. He hasn’t seen Sam since he arrived in this wonky universe. He’d been too caught up in everything and _God, he’s an idiot_. There’s a slim chance that dream-Sam can help. At the very least, Sam’s presence will calm Dean’s nerves a bit.  
   
Getting out of bed and going through his usual morning routine is easy. He skips a shower, but takes the time to shave and brush his teeth. Pajamas he doesn’t recall putting on are thrown into the laundry basket, and he turns to the dresser he’s never had. In the drawers are an odd assortment of clothing. There’s sweaters, hoodies, and a _Downton Abbey_ t-shirt he’d never wear (in public). He bypasses all the weird shit and settles for his usual flannel and denim, but as he yanks the jeans up his thighs and buttons them, he finds them to be a little too tight and a little too short.  
   
Huh. His dream-self must’ve actually lost those few pounds he’s been meaning to work off. Dean wiggles his butt a little, testing the stretch of the denim, and decides it’s decent enough. He’s got bigger fish to fry, anyway.  
   
When Dean opens the bedroom door, his timing is on point. The door directly across from his swings open at the same moment, and Jody smiles at him.  
   
“Morning,” she greets, raising her hand and jiggling keys at him. “Headin’ out for coffee. Wanna come?”  
   
Not one to waste an opportunity, Dean takes a chance. “Sure. I’ll buy. Do y’mind dropping me off at Sam’s on the way back? Can’t seem to find my car.”  
   
Jody laughs. “Yeah, ‘course.”  
   
That was easier than he’d been expecting. Dean, 1. Djinn world, 0.  
   
The drive is pleasant. They spend it talking amiably, fiddling with the radio and laughing over lame jokes. Dean gets some overly sweet concoction from Starbucks and enjoys Jody’s uncharacteristic upbeat attitude. It could rival Donna’s ray-of-sunshine optimism were it not for the sarcasm thrown in here and there. He’s never seen Jody like this. While it’s a welcome change, it leaves him a bit unsettled.  
   
Something isn’t right, but he can’t seem to place just what it is.  
   
But then they’re pulling up a gravel drive toward a large yellow house, and Eileen is stepping out the front door, waving at them. All Dean’s concern dissipates, and he waves back, clambering out of the truck to greet the dog that comes barreling up to him. It’s a mutt with golden fur and too much energy. Jody laughs as Dean’s bombarded with licks (gross) and drives off with a satisfied smirk.  
   
Eileen approaches and gives Dean a quick hug. “Hey, Dean,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the movement causing sunshine to glint off her wedding ring. “Sam’s in the office.”  
   
They follow the dog into the house. It’s exactly what Dean imagined Sam would have. There’s dark wood floors and cheerfully painted walls decorated with family photos and fancy artwork. Potted plants and flowers breathe life into the space, kept healthy by light streaming in through large windows. The furniture is sparse but well loved, fitting in perfectly with the welcoming country vibe.  
   
The dog’s paws tap against the floor as it runs through the house and into a room at the end of a long hallway. It barks excitedly and Dean hears Sam’s voice chastising it.  
   
“Shh, Bones! I’m on the phone!”  
   
Dean follows Sam’s voice, its sound sorely missed even after such a short time without it. It adds to the symphony around them, made up of ticking clocks, chirping birds, and a radio playing quietly somewhere in the house.  
   
Rounding the corner into what Dean presumes is the office, Dean is met with a room full of books. Sam is square in the middle, sitting at a large desk with a dog at his side. He’s still on the phone, and when he notices Dean, he holds up a finger in a silent _hold on a sec_. He finishes his call quickly, then turns to his older brother and smiles apologetically.  
   
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Sam says, “That was the London Chapterhouse. You know how they can be.”  
   
“Chapterhouse?” Dean asks, taking the empty seat across from the desk.  
   
Sam lifts an eyebrow. “British Men of Letters?”  
   
“Oh!” Dean feels like an idiot. “Yeah, o’ course. Obviously.”  
   
“You okay?” Sam asks, frowning.  
   
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little jittery from the coffee,” Dean excuses, wiggling his empty Starbucks cup at Sam, “Too much caffeine.”  
   
“Uh-huh…” Sam mutters, giving Dean a what-the-fuck bitchface, but he gets over it quickly enough. “You staying for lunch? I think Eileen’s making grilled cheese.”  
   
Dean grins. “I’m here ‘til you drive me back to the bunker.”  
   
Sam’s frown deepens. “Since when do you call it ‘the bunker’?”  
   
“What?” Dean asks, confused. “What do I usually call it?”  
   
“Home.”  
   
The walls melt, Sam fades, and the sunshine disappears.  
   
The motel room is draped in darkness once more. Dean’s lightheaded, swaying slightly from his ropes—back and forth, back and forth, in rhythm with his heartbeat. It takes him a moment to notice the shadows moving and harsh whispers among the sounds of nearby traffic. The door is thrown open in a _whoosh_ of cold air, sending goosebumps to pimple along Dean’s skin. The doorway becomes a rectangle of red light and Dean squints against it, barely able to make out the words _Motel_ and _Vacancy_ in neon from the across the parking lot.  
   
A grunt sounds, then a giggle, and then a silhouette moves into the doorway. It looks to be one of the djinn, perhaps the teenage one, bent over and dragging something from the room. The adult follows, pulling something out of the room as well. The stench of rot hits Dean’s nose, and he realizes they’re disposing of corpses.  
   
They disappear around the corner, and a much smaller figure skips after them. Right before the djinn child closes the door, Dean hears her saying, “But mom, I’m hungry _now.”_  
   
A more appealing scent finds Dean, and he’s jerked back to where he was. The dinner table he’s sitting at is made of sturdy wood with a dark finish. A plate and a bowl are in front of him, and a glass of lemonade is in his hand. Eileen’s hands are flying as she speaks, excited about something—Dean doesn’t know what. Sam is laughing around a spoonful of food, and Dean looks down, inspecting his bowl to find it filled with tomato rice soup. He picks up his grilled cheese and dips it, then brings it to his lips.  
   
He’s supposed to be remembering something, but he doesn’t know what it is.  
   
The first bite of his lunch is near ecstasy, and he moans appreciatively. Sam makes a face that goes ignored. The sandwich is gooey with melted cheese, and the soup tastes just like how it did when his mother made it for him as a child. He tells Eileen as much and is pleased to hear Mary gave her the recipe.  
   
Dean gets a second serving and the talk moves on to work. He focuses on his meal, wanting to contribute to the conversation but realizing he can’t recall anything about his last hunt. Was it djinn? It seems unlikely, since they haven’t been spotted in years. Hell, he doesn’t even know why he came over to Sam’s house. It’s nice to see them, though. Sam seems happy, taking to his role as the head of the American Men of Letters exceptionally well. Dean’s proud of him.  
   
When they’re done, Eileen waves them off and Sam leads him to a lame (yet economic) blue Prius. The dog trots after them, jumping into the backseat when Sam opens the door for it with an inviting, “C’mon, Bones, good boy!”  
   
Dean rolls his eyes but refrains from commenting. Sam can get all the dog hair he wants on his seats. It’s not Baby, and Dean supposes the dog is nice enough. He gives it a scratch behind the ears while Sam settles into the driver’s seat. “You’ve done good for yourself, Sammy.”  
   
Sam starts the car, raising an eyebrow at Dean. “What do you mean?”  
   
“All this,” Dean says, motioning to the house as they pull away, “The wife, the house, the Men of Letters—you done good.”  
   
Sam snorts. “Okay, that was random. Thanks, I guess?”  
   
“I was just thinking about it, that’s all.” Dean shrugs.  
   
Sam smiles, small and probably meant just for himself, but Dean sees it anyway. He turns to look out the window and watches the country fields roll by. They drive on in comfortable silence, and Dean can feel himself radiating with satisfaction at all his little brother has accomplished. He’s entertaining the idea of nieces or nephews in the future when Sam pulls him from his thoughts with a nudge to his side.  
   
“You’ve done pretty well yourself,” Sam says.  
   
Dean huffs, his usual self-deprecation surfacing. “Yeah right. I’m just a hunter. I work and live in a musty underground bunker. I do my job, but it’s nothing special.”  
   
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam says, sighing like he’s heard it all before, “Don’t be like that. You’ve got a fulfilling job. You _save_ people. You get to be out there, fighting the good fight and helping them one on one. You get to punch the bad guy in the face. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been on a hunt? Three months!” Sam flicks on the turn signal and they enter Lebanon city limits. “I love this position, Dean, but I miss being out in the field sometimes. I’m not complaining, of course. I get to spend more time with Eileen, when she’s not hunting, but Dean—you’re _out_ there, hunting things and saving people. It _is_ special, and it’s sure as hell not an easy job, but you do it better than anyone else I know. You have a lot of be proud of.”  
   
Warmth fills Dean, and he grins. “Dude, you can come hunt with me any time, y’know.”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam laughs, “So you keep telling me.”  
   
Dean looks back out the window, seeing Sam’s smile in the reflection of the glass. “To be honest,” he admits, “I’m glad you’re not out there as much anymore. You’re too smart to just be punching things, and besides—it’s one less person I gotta worry about.”  
   
“You worry too _much_ ,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “With all the safety procedures we put into place, people hardly ever get more than a scratch on hunts anymore. It’s one of the good things about teaming up with the British Men of Letters. They weren’t right about everything, but they had some pretty good ideas, don’t you think?”  
   
Thinking back to the day Ketch first showed him the impressive array of weapons the British organization had to offer, Dean grunts in acknowledgment. “Yeah, yeah.”  
   
Dean feels a sense of relief, knowing Sam’s rarely working hunts anymore. He’s not meaning to throw a one-man pity party when talking about his own life, but he’s in a mood, though he doesn’t know why he feels so frustrated. Maybe it has something to do with that thing he can’t remember. He thinks it’s important but just doesn’t _know._  
   
“…wanna listen to Taylor Swift?” Sam asks with a knowing smile, throwing Dean entirely for a loop.  
   
“W-what?”  
   
Sam taps a button and the radio comes on, chuckling at Dean’s undoubtedly red face. An ad for Auto Zone comes on instead of music, and Dean’s sigh of relief is met with more teasing. The rest of the ride goes on like that, the two of them just being brothers, and Dean’s worries fade away.  
   
Later that evening, after a hearty dinner amid friends and colleagues, is when Dean finally comes crashing down from his carefree, happy-go-lucky state of mind.  
   
The room (a spare converted into a mess hall) is full of people, hunters and Men of Letters and apprentices alike. Kevin is venting about an upcoming test, with which his entire future in the Men of Letters depends on, apparently. There was also something about wanting access to an exclusive London library open only to initiated members, though Dean’s distracted from Kevin’s woes by then. The hunter trainees are much more rowdy, drawing Dean’s attention as the girls gang up on Aiden ruthlessly until Jody gets them all under control with a simple glare.  
   
At Dean’s table, Mick is being interrogated by Frank and Ronald regarding conspiracy theories. Ash chimes in every now and then but is mostly focused on Garth’s excited ramblings about Bess having a pup.  
   
“I’m leavin’ in the mornin’ to go back to the pack,” he says, belching loudly around a bloody slab of meat. He politely wipes his mouth on a napkin before continuing. “Wisconsin ain’t too far of a drive. Y’all should come visit after the pup is born.”  
   
Ash matches Garth’s burp and says, “Buy me a pack of beer, and I’m there, man.”  
   
Charlie lightly punches Ash in the shoulder. “You should buy _him_ a pack of beer. He’s the one having a baby!”  
   
“Bess is doin’ all the work, bless her heart,” Garth sighs dreamily, “All I’m doin’ is addin’ up vacation time.”  
   
Dean frowns around his meatloaf. “You don’t get paternal leave?”  
   
“Oh, I do,” Garth confirms, grinning, “But I want all the time off with my baby girl that I can get.”  
   
Smiling to himself, Dean goes on listening to the group chatter. He has trouble fathoming that they’re all getting _paid_ for this save-the-world stuff, and wonders if anyone sold their soul for it. He pulls out his wallet under the table, and sure enough, there’s a debit card there with his actual name on it. There’s a corresponding app on his phone (password: Impala67) and finds his bank balance more than acceptable. His transaction history shows direct deposits for what looks like individual cases, according to the list— _Oasis Planes OK ghoul, Nazareth PA demon, Jericho CA ghost_ —and it goes on. A deposit from today reads _Raymond WA vamp_ , baffling Dean. It’s the only one in the last week and a half, aside from two smaller deposits labeled _service_ and another labeled _prep_.  
   
Dean raises his head to ask someone what the hell that’s about, and why he’s being paid for a hunt he didn’t go on, but discovers everyone else gone from the table. He spots Ash and Charlie leaving through one door, laptops tucked under their arms, followed closely by Mick and Kevin. Garth and Bobby are bickering their way out another door, trailing behind Rufus and Mary. Nearby, Claire and Aiden are gathering dirty dishes, then disappearing into the kitchen where Krissy is complaining loudly about dish duty. Everyone leaves, the doors close, and the room is silent.  
   
Dean’s utterly alone.  
   
His smile, which has been so constant throughout the day that his cheeks are sore, falls. There’s an ache in Dean’s chest. It’s not unfamiliar, but it’s near crushing after the outstanding day he’s had. He didn’t think he’d feel this way in a dream world. All his desires are supposed to have come true here. Why does he feel so—  
   
Dean freezes. Dream world.  
   
_Djinn_.  
   
Cursing, Dean leaps from the table, not caring when his plate is knocked to the floor, shattering at his feet. How could he have forgotten? Somewhere in some shitty motel room, he’s being fed on by a family of monsters and slowly being wrung dry. If he doesn’t get out of here and wake the fuck _up,_ he’ll die.  
   
He spends the next hour looking for anything the Men of Letters have on djinn, but comes up with nothing. He’s unsurprised—no self-respecting djinn would present its victim with information that could kill it. He moves on to what he knows will work.  
   
Or, at least, what used to work.  
   
He shoots himself again. And then again, with a different handgun. And then a third time with a shotgun in his mouth. He hangs himself in the garage. He ties a plastic bag around his head. He spikes his beer with arsenic. He takes all the pills he can find. He stabs himself. He downs half a bottle of bleach. He slices his neck open. He even goes so far as to try and drown himself in the sink.  
   
Now Dean stands in the kitchen, and he’s very much alive.  
   
It’s half past eleven, and he’s out of ideas. He has a headache, his muscles are tense, and his throat is sore, but he’s still breathing. He doesn’t understand why none of his attempts to snap out of this damn hallucination have been successful. He’s been in this situation before, and he’s gotten out before. What makes this djinn any different? Why doesn’t he remember reality like he should? Why is _nothing working?_  
   
What if he completely loses himself in the dream?  
   
Dean takes a swig of beer, finishing off yet another bottle. More empties line the counters around him. He can’t remember the last time he drank this much, but he doesn’t stop. His hand shakes when he reaches for the bottle of homemade moonshine with Garth’s name on it, ignoring it in favor of a large, burning gulp. He’s only gotten through a third of it so far, but he also finished off someone’s whiskey. He’s pretty drunk, and is aiming for alcohol poisoning. He thinks he has a ways left to go, so he sets the moonshine down and reaches for the rum.  
   
The rum is gone.  
   
“Wha..?” Dean slurs, gaping at the space it should be.  
   
A clacking sounds from behind him, and he turns to see the empty bottles falling into the trash bin. He follows the motion and finds Claire on the other end of it, glaring at him and pouring the rum down the sink drain.  
   
“Dude,” he immediately objects, swaying a little where he stands, “What the hell?”  
   
She’s unsympathetic. “I could say the same to you. You looking to join alcoholics anonymous or what?”  
   
“Was thirsty,” Dean tries to say, but it comes out garbled.  
   
“Mmm-hmm,” is all Claire replies with, dumping out the remainder of the moonshine and tossing the bottle to join the rest in the trash with more force than is necessary.  
   
“That’s a waste o’ vital resources,” Dean complains, leaning back heavily against the counter.  
   
“Can it,” she snaps venomously, crossing her arms. “Sober up, and in the morning, we’re gonna have a talk about whatever emotional trauma made you think it’s okay to get trashed this badly.” She turns to leave, making her way over to the door. “Enjoy your future hangover.”  
   
Dean trips over his own feet trying to catch up to her. “Claire, wait…”  
   
She must hear him stumbling around like a Grade-A moron, because she takes pity and stops, spinning around to glower at him.  
   
“Look,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “’m sorry, okay? Jus’ been a real bad day.”  
   
Claire raises an eyebrow and puts her a hand on her hip.  
   
“Don’ be mad at me,” Dean implores, suddenly desperate for her to be okay with him again. He can practically feel the anger radiating off her, and he wants nothing more than to soothe that. “Please.”  
   
“I’m not buying what you’re selling, Dean.” She takes a side step toward the door. “Your excuses are bullshit.”  
   
_No, no, no, no, no_. Dean’s fucked this up. He knows this isn’t the real Claire, but he still feels a twist of anguish. It took so long for her to like him, to trust him. They finally got to the point where instead of sneering at him until he left, she hugs him goodbye. He doesn’t want to lose that trust, not from her. She’s Cas’s not-daughter, and Jody’s almost-daughter, and she’s _family_ , dammit.  
   
He slams a fist against the wall, causing them both to jump. Claire holds her ground, look bordering on icy, while Dean scowls at himself.  
   
“I drank too much,” Dean says, using the wall next to the door to steady himself. He leans a shoulder against it, trying to stop his swaying. “I shouldn’t ‘ave, but nothin’ ‘s real.” He motions broadly with an arm, his whole body swinging with the unintentional force behind the movement. “This ‘s all jus’ a dream an’ I can’t wake up.”  
   
Claire scoffs. “Yeah, you drank too much, alright.” She reaches over and pinches his arm.  
   
“Ow,” he whines.  
   
“See? It’s real. You’re awake.” She moves to the side, waving a hand at the door. “Now go to bed.”  
   
Dean stays where he is. “It ain’ real, ‘cause real ain’ this nice,” he says as matter-of-fact as he can. “Not fer me.” He points vaguely behind him. “Dead people stay dead, Claire. Monst’rs eat people. The Brit’sh Men o’ Letters are dicks.”  
   
“I’m not arguing,” she comments, thawing a little. “What’s your point?”  
   
“Dude, Claire,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder and leaning in, mesmerized by the facts. “Sammy’s _married._ He has a _dog.”_  
   
“Okay,” Claire murmurs, drawing out the sound. “Somebody’s coming unhinged.”  
   
“Nah, Claire, Sammy’s safe an’ happy an’ has a big fancy house!” He wiggles a finger at her. “An’ Charlie an’ Ash are fucking BFFs or some shit. An’ _you!”_  
   
Eyes narrow in suspicion. “What about me?”  
   
“You’re not some angst-y teenage brat out huntin’ by yourself.” He drops his hand and leans heavily against the wall, gazing at her in amazement. “You’re learnin’ shit an’ gettin’ help an’ Bobby’s smart—he’ll teach you e’rything you need to know. You’re gonna be safe an’ that’s all I’ve ever wanted fer ya, y’know?”  
   
Claire’s anger visibly melts away, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “Really?”  
   
It occurs to Dean that they’re encroaching upon chick-flick territory and he straightens, huffing, “Yeah. Shut up. Don’ look at me like that.”  
   
Immediately, Claire snaps back to glaring at him, though she uncrosses her arms. Her tone is amused when she speaks. “You shut up, you big, drunk softie.”  
   
Dean scrutinizes the wall opposite him, not really seeing it. “E’rything here’s jus’ too good to be true. ‘S not real. Can’t be.”  
   
“You saying your life’s too _good_ for you?” Claire scoffs, taken aback. “What the hell, Dean?”  
   
“It’s jus’ not realistically, uh,” he pauses, searching for the right word and failing, “…real.”  
   
She snorts. “Smart.”  
   
“Not really,” he concedes, “but true. I can’t stay here ‘nymore. It’s not right. It’s not perfect like it’s supposed to be. I wan’ go home.”  
   
“Dean, you _are_ home, and you should be in bed.” Claire tugs on his arm, trying to pull him through the doorway. “Just because things are going well doesn’t mean they’re not real. Why would you even think that? I know you’re drunk, but you’re not stupid.”  
   
His knuckles are white where he grips the door frame tightly, biting his lip. The answer slams into him, and he gapes at the floor with the thought. Hoarsely, he confesses, “Cas isn’t here.”  
   
Claire softens, pausing in her attempt to force him to bed. “What do you mean?”  
   
Dean swallows heavily, throat burning, and he closes his eyes, telling himself it’s because everything is spinning, and not because he doesn’t want to look her in the eye. “It’s not perfect without Cas.”  
   
Quietly, she asks, “Would you stay if Cas were here?”  
   
“It’s not real,” he says, more to himself than to her. It’s appealing, and it _could_ be perfect, but he can’t fall for it. He shakes his head at himself, at his yearning to stay, and repeats, “It’s not real.”  
   
God, he wants it to be real. He fears that if Cas were here, he’d be unable to let go.  
   
The truth of it surprises him. This world, the dream-like hallucination, is perfect in so many ways, but it’s not quite there. Something is off about it, and that something is Cas. Dean could easily see himself giving into the djinn—and if that weren’t terrifying enough, it’s beginning to look like he doesn’t have a choice anyway—but not like this. Yes, Sam is safe and happy. Mary is able to smile so easily now. Claire is standing strong by his side. Bobby, Rufus, Ash, Charlie, and so many others are alive and well. The British Men of Letters aren’t backstabbing douchebags. The world is intact, there’s no apocalypse looming over their heads, and the monster population is well under control.  
   
Of course, there are a few downsides. Certain faces he’d like to see—ones he’d imagined would be here—aren’t present. He has no idea where his beloved car is, which, _what the fuck?_ And for some reason, his wardrobe is full of clothes he’d never wear, his jeans are too tight, and his entire porn collection is gone, including the vintage issues of _Busty Asian Beauties_.  
   
Those are all things he can deal with (and has before), but there’s one thing he can’t do without.  
   
_Cas_.  
   
A hand waves in front of Dean’s face and he realizes his vision is blurred. He blinks it away.  
   
“Earth to Dean?” Claire is saying. “Hello?”  
   
“I’m here,” Dean huffs, looking away from the wariness in her eyes.  
   
“Wasn’t sure,” she says, “You weren’t responding. How much did you _drink?”_  
   
“Not enough,” he answers, staring longingly at the sink where his coping mechanism has long since drained away.  
   
Claire shoves him none-too-lightly, then declares, “You’re being stupid. Everything here is legit, and you’re wasted.” She snorts. “You’re a terrible role model.”  
   
“No shit.”  
   
She rounds on him, furious. “Then clean up your act!”  
   
Taken aback, Dean responds smartly, “Wha’?”  
   
“Get your shit together,” Claire seethes, “You said _I_ was angst-y, but look at you, over here brooding because your life is just too damn good to be true. Get over yourself.” She looks up and sighs, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing deeply, as if trying to calm herself, then she faces him again. “You’re like a dad to me, Dean. You think I like seeing you so damn drunk you can’t tell what’s real or not?”  
   
Heart heavy, Dean toes the ground with his boot. “…you think I’m like a dad to you?”  
   
“Duh,” is all she says.  
   
Guilt overwhelms Dean. How could he have let himself get so out of control? He’s ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t even _be_ like this, period, and it’s made worse by the fact that Claire is here seeing it. He’s drunk, pathetic, and a complete asshole. He swallows, throat tight. “I’m sorry.”  
   
Claire’s arms are suddenly thrown around his shoulders and her hair is in his face. She’s warm against him, standing on her tiptoes to reach. When she speaks, she sounds exasperated, but also a little bit fond. “I get it, y’know. You miss Cas. It’s okay.”  
   
Dean barely has time to register the hug, much less return it, when she pulls back. She’s scowling at him again, but he sees right through it this time. He smiles at her, a little dopey in his drunken state, and then everything lurches.  
   
The motel room is dark again, nearly pitch black. Everything is still spinning, as if he were actually drunk, but he’s isn’t—not here. It’s the blood loss, it has to be. Shades of black and red swirl in his vision until his eyes roll back into his head. He gasps with pain around his neck, finding it difficult to breathe. Inhaling is a struggle and he wheezes with the effort. He doesn’t realize there’s a pressure against his throat until it disappears and air rushes into his lungs.  
   
Distantly, between his hacks and coughs, he hears laughter. When he looks, he meets the glowing blue gaze of his captor. She grins at him and pinches his cheek, talking and probably mocking him, though he can’t understand it over the ringing in his ears. It’s all just noise.  
   
He turns his head to the side, resting it against his upright arm, and the other two djinn come into view. The kid and teenager are glowing as well, eyes a deep well of azure light as they slurp from tubes attached to the blood bag. Red trickles down the child’s chin and she licks it away, flashing white fangs at him. The bag is slowly emptying, and Dean knows it’s his blood that’s filling their bellies. They’re drinking him, and he can do nothing to stop it.  
   
Red. Black. Blue. It’s twisting and turning, swaying and swirling. The colors spiral, rotating round and round and round, and Dean can’t breathe again. She’s laughing in his ear, cackling harsh right against the skin, and a dull pain is throbbing in his head.  
   
He can’t—  
   
He should—  
   
He has to—  
   
Dean comes to in his bed. For a moment, the sight he opens his eyes to fills him with such a pleasant warmth in his chest that he forgets to be afraid. Everything he just saw, everything he just felt—it all melts away. All that’s left is Cas sitting on the mattress next to him. Cas’s lips are turned down with worry, eyes narrowed and brow scrunched up. His hair is sticking up in all directions, like he’s been running his hands through his hair. A duffel bag is on the floor by the door, beside a muddy pair of discarded boots. His trench coat is thrown haphazardly over the desk chair, leaving Cas clad in a pair of jeans and a sweater. He looks as soft as his hands are where they grip Dean’s.  
   
“You’re awake,” Cas says.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, eyes slipping closed again. There’s a headache pounding in his temple, but it feels dulled in Cas’s presence. He finally feels safe, entirely at ease now that Cas is here. He squeezes Cas’s hand—or maybe Cas squeezes his, he’s not sure—and asks, “Where were you?”  
   
Cas sounds troubled, answering, “You know where I was. You saw me off, Dean.”  
   
Dean doesn’t open his eyes. “Remind me?”  
   
“Benny and I went to back up the Harvelles on a hunt,” Cas explains, talking slowly and clearly, “As we discussed. I dropped Benny off with Henriksen so they could work on a cover story for the FBI, and Ellen and Jo are meeting up with Bela in Milwaukee for an exchange.”  
   
“And how’d you get home?” Dean questions, swallowing thickly. He wants—no, needs—the story to make sense.  
   
Cas’s hands tighten around Dean’s. “The same way I left: the Impala.”  
   
“And why didn’t I go with you?”  
   
“Dean, you should _know—”_  
   
“Cas, _please,”_ Dean implores.  
   
Cas hesitates, then gives in. “You were busy teaching Mick how Sam’s filing system works. Benny volunteered to go with me in your place. I assume you didn’t argue because the hunt was so simple—just a small vampire nest up in Washington.” He shifts and the mattress dips. “Dean, are you alright?”  
   
“And the money in my back account,” Dean presses, “That’s the payment for the hunt, isn’t it?”  
   
“In our account?” Cas frowns. “They deposited it earlier today.” He glances at the clock and corrects himself. “Yesterday, now. But Dean, _are you alright?”_  
   
Dean opens his eyes and smiles. “Yeah.”  
   
The concern doesn’t leave Cas’s face. “Claire said you drank quite a bit, then passed out on her.”  
   
“I suppose I did,” Dean concedes. He thinks it’s the truth, but he isn’t sure. He’s tired.  
   
Cas is calm when he speaks, but doesn’t break eye contact. “Why?”  
   
“Not sure,” Dean murmurs honestly, eyes drooping. He’s having trouble staying awake. “Missed you, though.”  
   
“That’s a terrible excuse,” Cas scolds, mouth twitching as he tries to hold back a smile of his own.  
   
“It was a bad night.”  
   
“It’s only been a few hours.”  
   
Dean shrugs. “It’s a good night now.”  
   
“What it is, is bedtime,” Cas responds, standing.  
   
Dean lays in bed and watches as Cas goes about a nightly routine that shouldn’t feel new and interesting, but it does. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, then strips down to his boxers. A pair of loose flannel pants—extracted from Dean’s dresser—are pulled up over them, then a threadbare t-shirt (Dean’s pretty sure it’s his, too) covers Cas’s torso. The day’s dirty clothes are dumped into Dean’s laundry basket, then the lights flick off and Cas climbs into Dean’s bed, making himself comfortable on the side Dean’s been instinctively leaving empty for years. And when Cas leans over and kisses Dean, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.  
   
“I was worried,” Cas whispers against Dean’s mouth, “Don’t do that again.”  
   
“I won’t,” Dean promises, and pulls Cas closer. Strangely, it feels like he’s never done this before, though he knows that can’t be true. This is how it is, how it _should_ be, and he knows Cas loves him—remembers the first time Cas said it, laying on the floor of a musty old barn while they waited for Ramiel to come kill them—yet this feels _new_. Dean’s excited, heart pounding in his chest, and he gasps like a virgin when Cas moves to hover directly above him, lips moving leisurely. He probably doesn’t mean to seduce Dean, but it’s working nevertheless, and Dean wants nothing more than to explore this further.  
   
When Dean tugs Cas into the crevice between his legs and opens his mouth to him, a strong sense of _wrong_ vibrates up his spine and he’s plunged into the dark motel room once more. A child sobs on the bed, inhuman tattoos pulsing blue light with each heavy sob. The mother djinn is cursing at him, ripping the IV needles out of his flesh one by one. Her face is twisted into a menacing scowl. Metal glints red in the light and then a she’s carving into him with a knife, blood spraying her face carelessly with each shallow cut.  
   
“My daughter is dead because of you!” she spits venomously, eyes bloodshot with rage, and only then does he notice the absence of the teenage djinn.  
   
Dean hisses, every slice of the blade sending pain shooting through him. He has enough presence of mind to know he hasn’t killed any djinn recently, and definitely not this one’s daughter. He says as much, voice deep and throat so raw it hurts to speak, but it only angers her more.  
   
She lets out a sharp cry of fury and grabs Dean’s jaw, digging her nails into his cheeks. “I knew there was a chance she would draw a hunter’s attention after she ran away and started feeding here, but that’s why I came after her! I came to protect my baby from wanna-be heroes like you! She wasn’t supposed to _die!”_ She jerks Dean’s head up, forcing their eyes to meet. He can feel her claws sinking into the flesh of his face, their pointed tips causing blood to well to the surface. “The hunters who came here with you—they killed her. You’re one of _them_. You might as well have done it yourself!”  
   
The djinn shoves Dean back, releasing him. He jostles and sways, his bindings pulling painfully where they tie him to the ceiling. He feels so, so weak. He can’t see much of anything—the room is shrouded in darkness, nearly pitch black. The djinn’s face is lit by the small sliver of neon red coming in through the slit in the closed drapes, one glowing eye peering at him through a curtain of dark hair.  
   
“I can’t feed on my daughter’s murderer,” she hisses, “I won’t!”  
   
She darts forward, knife raised. Dean’s nerve endings flare in pain, first one arm, then the other. He howls as the cuts are made, then he’s no longer able to hold his head upright. He’s panting, hurting, and exhausted. It’s an effort to keep from passing out, and he watches as she throws the weapon aside, hearing it clatter to the floor somewhere in the gloom.  
   
There’s warmth on his face, and he pulls it away from where he was leaning it against his arm, finding it sticky and wet. Blood runs in small rivers down from the cut in his wrist, and when he looks, he finds a matching one on his other arm.  
   
“You will bleed until you die, then you will _rot.”_ The djinn spits on him, and it, too, runs down his skin. “And it will _still_ be too good a death for you.”  
   
Despite being dizzy, haggard, hurting from innumerable wounds, and bleeding to death—Dean is still ashamed of the small whimper that escapes him.  
   
A pressure moves off his chest, and Cas hovers over him, confusion painted across his features. “Dean? Did I hurt you?”  
   
Dean stares up at Cas and aches for an entirely different reason. He’s in a hallucination. None of this is real.  
   
More terrifying still: he almost fell for it.  
   
With great effort, Dean shoves Cas hard, pushing him away. The force of it nearly knocks Cas off the bed entirely, managing not to fall off only by grabbing the headboard last minute. By the time Cas regains his balance, Dean is already out of bed. He makes it to the doorway when Cas calls out to him.  
   
“Dean!”  
   
“Shut up!” Dean barks, refusing to turn back. “You’re not even _real_ , for fuck’s sake!”  
   
“Wha—”  
   
_“Shut up!”_  
   
Dean leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.  
   
The next few days are a stark contrast to the ones leading up to them. The world is still perfect, enticing and welcoming at every turn, but Dean is on edge. He won’t let himself forget, not again. He’s been doing everything he can to remember, keeping it at the forefront of his mind. He writes it down on all available surfaces only for it to vanish the moment he turns his back. He’s written it on his skin to watch it fade away. He’s carved it into his flesh only for Cas to conveniently appear and heal the wounds, leaving no scarring behind, even in impossible places at impossible times.  
   
The djinn is manipulating the world, making it harder and harder for Dean to remember.  
   
_It’s not real._  
   
He almost slips up in the shooting range with Ellen, and then again with Krissy in the library. He begins to keep his distance from others, not wanting their distractions—and that’s what they are. The djinn is sending them to him, trying to draw him in. Kevin tries to get Dean to teach him how to make homemade EMF detectors. Charlie begs Dean to play games with her. Sam wants Dean to go car shopping with him. Donna tempts him with fresh pies and delicious meals. Bobby wants help working on his car. Mary wants his assistance on a hunt. Garth returns from his trip with baby shower invitations. Dean refuses them all.  
   
He sleeps in the garage, in the Impala’s backseat, for an hour or two each night. He ignores the backache and the tempting memory foam mattress in his bedroom. He adds to the pain regularly, still trying to escape the djinn’s capture, desperate not to give in. The endeavors to kill himself are unsuccessful, but have begun to leave him worse for wear. His muscles are sore, the pounding in his head constant, and his throat burns whenever he swallows. He aches everywhere, dull enough to allow him to still function, but bone deep and never ending. Scars have started popping up where he wounds himself the worst, and he’s long since stopped trying to count them.  
   
Above all, he’s just tired.  
   
Life for everyone else goes on as normal. More than once he’s been walked in on during a suicide attempt, only to be lightly scolded like it’s no big deal. Bobby has gotten to the point that he just rolls his eyes and says, “It’s no use, son. Give it up.”  
   
Jody is less forgiving, lecturing him. “Claire’s first hunt is coming up and _this_ is what you’re doing? Don’t you dare let her down, Winchester!”  
   
Sam is the worst, clinging to him and crying like Dean hasn’t seen his little brother do since they were children. Thankfully, Sam’s only caught him at it once so far.  
   
Castiel is the hardest to be near. He’s openly friendlier than Dean’s ever known him to be, endearing himself to hunters and Men of Letters alike with some kind of miraculous, awkward charm. He’s teamed up with Garth, the two of them making it their mission to cheer Dean up. Garth corners Dean with hearty meals and chick-flick worthy talks. Cas is the opposite, silent but supportive. Whenever Dean’s within reach, Cas touches him—a hand on his shoulder, an arm around his waist, a kiss on his cheek—anything to show support, acceptance, and love. It would be so effortless to give in, to let Cas hold him and believe it when he says it’ll all be okay.  
   
Dean avoids Cas at all costs.  
   
Sam and Eileen keep coming to the bunker. There’s a near constant bounce in Sam’s step and he smiles more than Dean’s used to. His dog trails after him wherever he goes, tail wagging in glee at all the people. More often than not, the dog finds Dean before Sam does, giving Dean big puppy eyes anytime Dean so much as _thinks_ about escape.  
   
Unsurprisingly, Mary gets along well with Bobby, and Charlie and Kevin get along even better. The relationships formed between all these people soothes something in Dean he can’t even begin to put a name to. He’s always wished they’d met, at least once. Seeing them interacting in the ways he always thought they would is dazzling, even if none of it is real.  
   
He _has_ to keep remembering that it’s not real.  
   
He repeats it in his head like a mantra. _It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._ He knows now how easy it would be to forget and fall prey to the dream. Surrendering to it means certain death, but he’s running out of ideas. He doesn’t know what else to do, so he keeps trying, but it’s been futile. The djinn is making it harder, too—he’s rarely alone, despite his best efforts. The people around him, living mannequins of those he loves, work him over and manipulate him each time he’s caught, making him feel guilty and ashamed. The djinn is in his head, knows what his buttons are and when to push them, using the faces of friends and family against him.  
   
Dean doesn’t know how much time he has left. In reality, he’s bleeding out and probably only has a matter of hours left. Here in the hallucination, he’s less sure. The flow of time is different, faster, but it feels natural to him. If things go on like they are, then eventually, he’ll die. At this point, he’s come far enough in his search for escape that it feels hopeless. The dream is beautiful, simple, and alluring. Oddly, it’s not as difficult as he thought it would be when he finally admits it to himself—he wants it.  
   
It’s a lie, but it’s such a _good_ lie.  
   
It’s game night again, and Dean goes willingly when Kevin comes to fetch him. The room is buzzing with excitement when he enters, occupied by more people than the previous week’s crew. Sam is there, dressed more casually than he’s been during Dean’s entire visit. Jo is guzzling pre-game beers with Ash, cheered on by Charlie while Frank scowls at them all. Ronald and Becky call Kevin over to discuss a potential _Magic: The Gathering_ trade, clearing Dean’s line of sight. At the end of the table, bent over the diorama, are Garth and Cas.  
   
Shit. Dean should leave, and he should do it _now_ , so he takes a step back. The djinn is in control, however, so Cas and Garth notice him anyway.  
   
“Dean,” Cas says, straightening and turning to face him. There’s a small, pleased smile tilting up his lips. “Come see what Garth made.”  
   
Hesitantly, Dean complies, moving to stand on Garth’s other side, out of Cas’s reach. He gazes down at the map and sees four tiny miniature figures. Garth holds one up to him, grinning from ear to ear with pride. It’s a tiny man with pointy ears and a staff, dressed in cowboy gear. Wiggling it a bit, Garth says, “Just finished ‘em yesterday. Got a whole set!”  
   
“The detail is exceptional,” Cas says from beside Dean.  
   
Dean jumps. Cas had been at Garth’s elbow, disappearing and reappearing at Dean’s side between one blink and the next. No one else seems to have noticed.  
   
Cas goes on nonchalantly, “Are they going to be incorporated into the game?”  
   
“Well,” Garth says, scratching his head, “There ain’t nothin’ in the manual that says there _can’t_ be cowboy elf wizards.”  
   
From across the table, Frank snorts and Becky rolls her eyes.  
   
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Charlie chimes in.  
   
“They gotta have a cool name, though,” Ash adds. Lowering his voice, he says dramatically, “‘Wizards of the wild, wild west’.”  
   
“Dude, that’s terrible,” Dean laughs. Cas’s shoulder is pressed against his companionably, and he can smell Cas’s familiar thunderstorm scent. While the others go on talking, Dean does something he knows he shouldn’t—he finds Cas’s hand with his and squeezes. Cas squeezes back, then casually leans over to peck Dean gently on the cheek before adding his own two cents to the discussion. He tilts further into Dean, leaning more of his weight against him and smiling amiably like it’s no big deal.  
   
Dean supposes it isn’t, not to dream-Cas, but in reality, they’ve never held hands before. This is the first, and likely the only, time Dean will ever experience this. Heart in his throat, Dean entwines their fingers. He holds on tight, even after they’ve settled into their seats and started the game. The group enjoys several beers each, and becomes rowdier with every dice roll. Garth’s half-orc somehow manages to lead them safely through a maze, and then Sam’s mage, while dealing with the consequences of Becky’s love spell, gets them thrown into a sorcerer’s tower. Dean curses him like the rest of the group, but can’t hold back his laughter. Sam’s bitchface is just too good. Giggling like schoolboys, Dean and Ash raise their beer bottles and toast at Sam’s expense. His other hand stays firmly in Cas’s.  
   
_It’s not real._  
   
The evening is blast, ending hours later with Ronald’s gnome saving the day and Charlie’s elf being crowned queen. For once, Dean lets Cas take him to bed, both of them giddy as they stumble down the hallways. Neither are sober, but they’re not drunk, either. When they finally fall into the mattress, Cas is the perfect gentleman, like anyone’s dream-perfect boyfriend would be. He doesn’t try anything, just tucks them in and holds Dean until morning.  
   
It’s the best sleep Dean’s ever had.  
   
They stay in bed for a long time after waking. They don’t talk, or kiss, or anything but curl up in each other’s arms. Cas seems content with this, petting Dean’s hair and singing _Hey, Jude_ under his breath. Dean lays there, staring at Cas’s collarbone and weighing his options.  
   
He’s dying. Even within the hallucination, he can feel it. He wants out, to return to his brother and Cas. He wants to talk to his mother and form a real bond with her instead of skirting around all their issues. He wants to see Jody, Alex, Claire, and Donna again. He wants to do his job, continue helping people in the only way he knows how. He wants to _live_.  
   
But he’s running out of time.  
   
He peers up at Cas’s face. His lips are moving as he whispers the song and his fingers are carding through the short strands on Dean’s head, though his eyes are closed. His hair sticks up, mussed from slumber and last night’s tipsy shenanigans, and the Led Zeppelin t-shirt he wears is soft against Dean’s skin when he rests his cheek against Cas’s chest. It’s warm under the heavy comforter, body heat radiating between them just enough to be cozy. There’s something serene about the moment and Dean doesn’t want to let it go.  
   
He _should_.  
   
“Cas,” Dean says, hating himself as he breaks the quiet peace in the room, “We should probably get up.”  
   
A kiss is pressed to Dean’s forehead, and then Cas is up and pulling the blankets up around Dean, promising breakfast in bed. When Cas arrives with it (faster than should be possible), they split the meal. It’s greasy (to cure the hangover Dean doesn’t have), but good. Afterward, when Cas excuses himself to shower for the day, Dean reclines against the headboard, hunger satisfied and smiling. It takes a moment for the truth to come back to him.  
   
_It’s not real_.  
   
Right. He sits up and reaches for the knife on the bed tray. He cleans the food residue off it with a napkin, chest aching at the thought of leaving all this behind. He wants to return to the real world, he does, but there are perks to living out the rest of his short life here. In here, he’s surrounded by friends and family, where the work he does makes a huge impact on the world. His mother has less gray hairs and easier smiles. Sam is happy, living in wedded bliss with Eileen in a picture perfect house. Cas is more relaxed than Dean’s even seen him, softer around the edges and comfortable with himself. All the kids he worried about before, the ones who put their asses on the line to hunt monsters when they’re not even old enough to drink, are safe and sound under Bobby’s wing and Rufus’s watchful eye. Hell, he’s like a _dad_ to Claire, and that just blows his mind.  
   
Outside the dream, things seem bleak by comparison. He’s said it more than once: all his friends are dead. Aside from that, those who have survived this long don’t have it easy. Donna is lonely. Jody has dealt with losses unimaginable. Alex never had a family. Stopping the apocalypse meant tearing Claire’s family apart, even if they hadn’t known the consequences at the time. Eileen is in the wind. Mary’s struggling with her own resurrection and would rather hunt with a bunch of British control freaks than her own sons. Sam shoulders overwhelming amounts of guilt for things beyond his control, past and present. Cas is lost somewhere between Heaven and Earth, attempting to fit in with humanity but never quite succeeding before he’s pulled back to the angels yet again.  
   
Gritting his teeth, Dean raises the knife. He wants to be selfish and stay. He’s aware that this probably won’t even work, but he has to try. The people out in the _real_ world need him. If there’s nothing else the past couple of years have taught him, he’s been convinced of one thing: he’s loved. He has a responsibility to be the best he can be for them. He has to return.  
   
Slicing his own throat is surprisingly simple. It takes one swift movement and then it’s done. His arm falls back onto the mattress, dropping the knife, and his head tilts back. He makes an uncomfortable gurgling sound and his vision goes fuzzy, so he closes his eyes. He can feel his pulse slowing, the blood running down his neck in thick rivets. Distantly, he can hear Cas in the shower, singing along off-key to some 90’s pop hit.  
   
He feels weak. Something within him is dimming, fading away, and he wonders if he’s done it. He spares a brief moment of worry, thinking he should’ve woken up in reality by now, but then it passes. It’s cold and dark, and he’s too far gone to think much of anything anymore.  
   
A bright light bursts through his consciousness, a white-blue shining in his mind’s eye, accompanied by a tingling sensation he knows all too well. He comes to and finds Cas glaring at him, hands on his throat where the angel is healing him.  
   
“Cas,” Dean croaks, running a hand over the flesh after Cas moves away. There’s no wound, just a thin scar he has to concentrate to feel beneath his fingers. The blood is gone and so is the knife.  
   
“I really wish you’d stop,” Cas says, cupping Dean’s jaw in his palm, “There’s nowhere else for you to go, Dean.”  
   
The blue in Cas’s irises seems peculiar, bright and alluring. Dean can’t look away.  
   
“This is your home,” Cas says unblinkingly, “You can’t go anywhere. You can’t leave. I won’t let you.”  
   
The blue glimmers brilliantly, hypnotizing, but Dean fights it as best he can. “It’s not. It’s not my home. You’re not Cas. It’s not—”  
   
_It’s not real._  
   
“You’re confused, Dean.” Cas’s voice is pitched low, soothing to Dean’s ears. “You’re safe here. You’re happy here, aren’t you, Dean?”  
   
“I’m not—” Dean starts, falling silent under the radiance of Cas’s gaze for an obscure amount of time. He swallows and tries again. “I’m not sure. I think—”  
   
_It’s not real._  
   
“We love you, Dean. You belong here. You’re happy—”  
   
_Am I?_  
   
“—here. You don’t want to leave—”  
   
_Don’t I?_  
   
“— and I need you, Dean. I love you.”  
   
Dean shudders under Cas’s touch, yet he can’t help but lean into it. Cas’s eyes are glowing now, and he has a passing thought that he should be concerned, but it seems unimportant. It vanishes as quickly as it came. Cas’s hands are warm on Dean’s face, the deep rumble of his voice reassuring, calming Dean’s harried thoughts. A small, simple mantra appears at the forefront of his brain, familiar like he’s said it thousands of times.  
   
_It’s not real_.  
   
He catches the thought and tugs it back to get a good look at it, but then there’s a flash of blue and he’s lost it. Cas’s hands tighten around his jaw and Dean blinks, finding Cas staring intensely at him. The blue glow dims, then is gone.  
   
“You’re happy here, aren’t you, Dean?” Cas repeats.  
   
_It’s not real._  
   
_Or is it?_  
   
Images flash through Dean’s head—a big yellow house and Eileen’s wedding ring, Mary and Bobby laughing, Jody singing along to the radio, a group of friends seated around a table playing games, Claire’s arms winding around his shoulders, Sam playing with his dog, Cas asleep on the pillow next to Dean—and then he smiles.  
   
“I am,” he answers.  
   
_This is real._  
   
Everything is simple after that. Dean’s at ease, laughing at himself when he realizes he’s been wearing Cas’s jeans all week instead of his own. Cas teases him for it, grinning and chipper as they pack their bags for the trip to Joplin. They chatter excitedly about it as they get ready, and when they enter the garage and see Claire standing by the Impala, Dean is overcome with a swell of pride.  
   
Cas goes straight to her side and opens the trunk, eager to make sure everything is in order before they depart, but Dean remains frozen in the doorway. She may not be his daughter, but she kind of is, and this will be her first hunt. She’s passed the tests and won Bobby’s stamp of approval. She’s standing there in her ratty jeans and her give-’em-hell attitude, looking every bit the Winchester she is—blood related or not.  
   
Mary arrives at Dean’s elbow and wordlessly passes over her travel mug. “I know that look.”  
   
He takes a sip from her coffee and hands it back. “What look?”  
   
“The one on your face,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “That’s the look a parent gives their kid when she’s all grown up.”  
   
“She’s not my kid,” Dean says, looking down at his boots.  
   
“She’s not,” Mary agrees.  
   
He tilts his head up and watches Cas and Claire. “She’s not Cas’s, either.”  
   
“Despite the whole ‘sharing a bloodline’ thing, of course,” she teases, “But blood doesn’t mean anything.”  
   
Dean turns sharply to face her, narrowing his eyes. “Family doesn’t start with blood, no.”  
   
“But it doesn’t end there, either,” says a newcomer.  
   
Dean finds Sam at his side, grinning at him. Dean shrugs. “I know.”  
   
Mary nudges him in the side. “Then you know she’s as good as your guys’ daughter.”  
   
“You can’t really argue that,” Sam adds.  
   
Dean glances toward the car again and catches Cas’s eye. Cas gives him a dopey smile and an awkward wink, and Claire rolls her eyes dramatically. A sawed off shotgun is in her hands and Dean realizes with a jolt of delight that it’s his, the first one he made back when he was a kid. She puts it back in the trunk and Cas deposits their duffel bags in after, then closes the trunk. He and Claire lean against it, Cas saying something Dean can’t hear to her. They hug, and Dean all at once fills to the brim with joy. That’s _his_ not-daughter and _his_ boyfriend-lover-partner-whatever-he’s-called over there, and _his_ mother and _his_ brother by his side.  
   
There’s a dash of his usual doubt and self-deprecation, but when he opens his mouth to argue this time, it’s not because he means it, but because it’s habit. He really has nothing to complain about. Life is _perfect_.  
   
And then his feet are swept out from under him.  
   
Or, at least, that’s what it feels like, but when he comes to in the dark motel room, they’re right where they’re supposed to be—on the ground. They dangle there, toes barely touching the floor with how high he’s strung up. He can’t feel his arms anymore, but he knows they’re there. They’re all that’s holding him up. He groans in pain, voice rasping, and the shadows in his peripheral shift. The sliver of light from the window comes through again, reflecting off the crimson pool of blood he’s standing in. He knows, with absolute certainty, that it’s his.  
   
“Dean?”  
   
Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut, and when he opens them, Cas is right there, mouth turned down in concern.  
   
“Are you alright?”  
   
Dean doesn’t understand why Cas is asking until Cas reaches up and brushes away a wetness on Dean’s cheek that he didn’t know was there until it was gone. He bites his lip and nods, pulling Cas into his arms and pressing his face into his neck. His eyes slip shut again, relishing the way Cas runs a palm up and down his back. He feels disoriented by whatever it is he just saw. It was dizzying, and he had the distinct impression that he’s going to die, but that can’t be right. He doesn’t want to die.  
   
A large hand pats Dean’s shoulder and Sam says, with mirth in his tone, “Sorry, Cas. We may have just had a chick-flick moment. Dean’s getting vulnerable to those in his old age.”  
   
Cas’s voice is still tinged with concern, but he sounds more at ease when he speaks into Dean’s ear. “So there’s nothing wrong?”  
   
Looking from Mary’s amused smile to Sam’s smirk, then over Cas’s shoulder to Claire helping Krissy pack up Sam’s car, all under the bright lights of the bunker’s garage—Dean feels safe. Cas’s arms are around him, he’s with his family, and he’s home.  
   
So he pulls back, grinning at Cas, and says, “Nah, sweetheart. Nothin’s wrong.”  
   
“Then let’s _go,”_ Claire declares across several parking spots, wound tight with nervous energy.  
   
Krissy closes the Prius’s trunk with an air of finality, calling over to them, “We’re ready!”  
   
“Guess that’s our cue,” Sam says, nodding to Mary.  
   
“Sam’s got the GPS set up, so just go ahead and follow us, okay?” Mary pecks Dean and then Cas on the cheek, then follows Sam to his car. “Love you boys!”  
   
Claire is ready and waiting in the backseat, toe tapping impatiently against the floorboards. Cas chuckles at her, and Dean just sits back for a moment to take it all in. Today is Krissy and Claire’s first hunt—ghouls, from the look of the information Eileen emailed him this morning—and the two girls are more than prepared. Mary, Cas, and himself are going along as potential back up and support. As head to the American Men of Letters, it’s Sam’s job to assess how this case goes and determine if they’re ready to hunt on their own, but Dean knows they are. Bobby and Rufus wouldn’t have approved this otherwise.  
   
And here in the Impala is his little family. As they pull out of the garage, while Claire darts across the front seat to fiddle with the radio and Cas quotes vehicle safety at her, Dean finally catches on to the simple truth of it: he really is happy here.  
   
Their two car caravan stops right outside the bunker, and Dean can’t hold it in any longer. Sam is kissing Eileen goodbye through the driver’s window, and Dean is inspired by it. He reach across to the passenger side and grabs the collar of Cas’s dorky sweater. Claire kicks the back of his seat the moment their lips touch, but Dean ignores her horrified sputtering for the few seconds he allows himself to indulge in Cas. There’s a cute blush on Cas’s cheekbones when they part, and Dean’s never been so satisfied with himself.  
   
“That was gross,” his almost-daughter says, “Don’t ever do that again.”  
   
Cas twists in his seat to frown at her. “I don’t understand. Why do you find it repulsive? Is this another quirk of human adolescence?”  
   
Dean laughs merrily, watching Claire in the rearview mirror give Cas a _look_ that she clearly expects to explain it all.  
   
“Hey, Claire,” Dean says, “I’m proud of you.”  
   
She and Cas are showing their resemblance again, this time in their shared blush. Cas’s is fading, but hers is fresh and bright red, and Dean just can’t seem to stop smiling. A vague thought passes through his mind that maybe he shouldn’t be, but he dismisses it. Cas’s fingers are threading through his, and there’s some awful post-grunge music coming through the radio, and there’s literal fucking sunshine and chirping birds. It’s a dream come true, perfect in every way. But then again, who needs dreams when reality is this good?  
   
There’s a bang, and a thud, and a _sploosh_ , then Dean’s on the floor, mouth full of dirty shag carpet.  
   
He coughs and chokes on dust and dirt. He pushes to his hands and knees, wheezing as he tries to take in deep gulps of air. He arms wobble where they hold him up, and he feels himself straining with the effort of it. There’s pain in too many places to properly identify, and he’s damp in several areas, crusty in others. A metallic scent is strong in the motel room—it’s blood, both dried and fresh. Judging from the puddle of it he’s kneeling in, it’s his.  
   
There’s so much of it.  
   
All the memories from before, from what’s real and what’s not, come rushing back.  
   
“How?!” A shrill voice demands. Tattooed feet in pointed heels come to stand in front of him. The toe of the shoe taps his chest, and that’s all it takes to send him flying onto his back. He lands with a groan and looks up at the djinn as she snarls, “How did you figure it out?! I left no clues, no signs—”  
   
Breathing heavily, Dean shrugs and answers honestly. “Dunno.”  
   
She howls and kicks him in the ribs. He makes a feeble attempt to block the second strike, but a second djinn take hold of his wrists. He’s embarrassed that he can be immobilized by a _child_ , monster or not, but the flurry of blows to his torso give him little time to dwell on it. He grunts with each hit, voice raspy with misuse, and tries to use his legs—maybe kick back at her—but they’re folded in an awkward angle beneath him.  
   
The djinn’s foot lands hard again his side and there’s a definite _crack_ sounding from deep within Dean’s body. She cackles gleefully. The child joins in the laughter, releasing one of his hands to reach over and jab him where her mother just broke his ribs. He cries out and tries to slap her away, but she dodges easily and does it again, and again, and again.  
   
Dean curses himself. He’d surrendered to the dream world and had been ready to die peacefully within its confines. He can’t believe he was so stupid—that was what he’d needed to do from the beginning. Surrender was the only escape hatch in the backward djinn trap, one meant to keep him locked within his own mind, trying to kill himself over and over in infinite attempts to break free, desperate and in pain. Had he known acceptance was the key, he would’ve done it right off the bat. Now, after being immersed in the hallucinogenic state for so long, he’s too weak to even fight for the life he’d given up on.  
   
It’s complete bullshit, and exactly how his life’s always been. The familiarity of it comforts him in his dying moments.  
   
The door flies off it’s hinges and into the room, nearly hitting Dean in the head as it zooms by. He looks to the motel doorway and meets glowing blue eyes, but this time, the sight is a welcome one.  
   
“Cas,” he sighs.  
   
The djinn child rushes past Dean, footsteps splattering his blood from the pool beneath him onto his face. He closes his eyes against it, then the screaming starts. When he opens them again, she’s dead on the floor, eyes burnt out and still smoking. The adult djinn screeches, fury driving her to recklessness. She doesn’t see Sam come up behind her, isn’t expecting the angel blade he carries. When she looks down and sees the tip of it protruding from her chest, it’s too late. Her body irradiates from the inside, crackling that eerie blue one last time before she, too, drops lifeless to the floor.  
   
Dean’s vision blanks momentarily then, and when it returns, Sam and Cas are kneeling on either side of him. Bright light is emitting from under Cas’s hands where they touch his chest, and his whole body tingles pleasantly. Sam is wiping the blood from Dean’s face with a rough washcloth, no doubt from the motel bathroom, and muttering what sounds like threats to God should Dean die.  
   
The urge to roll his eyes is there, but Dean refrains. He won’t die. Cas is here healing him, saving his life yet again. Dean is grateful, though a small part of him aches with disappointment—not for another chance at life, but for the dream world he’s lost. It had been perfect in every way imaginable. It was much better than the hallucination brought on by the last djinn to trap him. He remembers that world, how _wrong_ it was. These djinn had been smarter to trap him where they had. This dream world had been so much more realistic, even with all the resurrections, unlikely peace between American hunters and British Men of Letters, and shortage of monsters. In that world, he’d had many friends. He’d had his family. He’d been close with his brother. He’d had Claire and Cas.  
   
Dean had been willing to stay even though he knew it was an illusion. He’d _wanted_ it to be real.  
   
He still does.  
   
Castiel’s hands dim and move away. Sam removes the washcloth.  
   
“I’m fine,” Dean says, before either of them can ask.  
   
Sitting up requires assistance from Sam, but from there, Dean’s got a handle on himself. No matter how often Cas heals him, it still feels like a miracle every time. He no longer feels any pain, just a bone deep exhaustion. A single glance at the angel proves that the effort of using so much grace has affected Cas similarly, if the bags under his eyes are any indication. Dean wants to crawl into the nearest bed with Cas, curl up with him and simply sleep. He wants to see Sam happy, with a wife and a dog and a place to call home. He wants to see Jody, Claire, Alex, and Donna, doing what they want to do, fighting the good fight and prevailing against evil.  
   
Dean’s life has been one shit storm after the other since birth. He’s been to hell and back—literally—and survived. Tonight is just another in a long tale of life or death situations, and if he continues on like usual, that’s all it’ll ever be. Life will go on the way it always has, they’ll all continue to be miserable, and they’ll move on to the next case.  
   
It doesn’t have to be that way.  
   
Dean twists at the waist and grabs Cas by the back of the neck to pull him in. Their lips slam together a little rougher than Dean had intended, but he’s in the moment, dammit. He kisses Cas like a dying man—and he was, so he figures it means he can get away with it—entirely unsurprised when the shock fades and Cas returns it with equal enthusiasm. Dean’s known for years that Cas loves him, and Cas had confirmed it back in Ramiel’s barn. The angel had been the braver of the two of them, taking a step and putting it all out there. Whether he thought he was gonna die at the time or not didn’t matter. He took a chance. Cas had wanted to be happy in death, free of all his secrets, and Dean understands that now.  
   
Cas kisses like he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment, and maybe he has. It’s sloppy with too much teeth, inexperienced despite being millions of years old. His hands cup Dean’s face like they did in the dream world, but here in reality, they’re sticky with blood and rough from handling too many weapons. _This_ is perfect.  
   
Sam clears his throat loudly.  
   
They pull apart, Cas’s eyes wide as he stares at Dean. “That was…”  
   
“Long overdue,” Dean finishes, smirking. “Can’t wait to do it again.”  
   
Real-Cas doesn’t blush as easily as dream-Cas, but Dean accepts the self-assigned challenge. He’s already making a mental list of things to tease Cas with.  
   
“I look forward to it,” Cas answers, standing. He holds out a hand for Dean, helping him to his feet.  
   
Sam shuffles awkwardly behind them. “Guys, this is nice ‘n’ all, but I’m pretty sure someone’s called the cops by now.”  
   
“There was a lot of screaming,” Cas concedes.  
   
Dean snorts. “And doors flying off hinges, like they do.”  
   
Cas rolls his eyes. “If you’d prefer, I can allow Sam to waste five minutes picking the lock next time you find yourself in mortal danger.”  
   
They leave the motel room, going on a few doors down to their own. Dean has to hand it to his late captors—hiding in plain sight was a brilliant plan on their part. It was too bad they hadn’t considered how the sounds of _murder_ might draw a little attention from the hunters down the hall.  
   
They pack the Impala quickly, then clamber in, driving off just in time to see several police cars swerve into the motel parking lot. Dean laughs from his spot in the passenger seat, giddy with disbelief. He really hadn’t expected to get away so easily. It’d make a good story to tell his mom.  
   
With that thought in mind, he digs through his pockets, but comes up empty. The djinn must’ve ditched his phone somewhere. Instead, Dean pulls Sam’s straight out of his pocket, as is his brotherly right.  
   
“Dude, _ask_ first,” Sam gripes, forever Dean’s bitchy little brother.  
   
A few texts later, and Dean says cheerily, “Take the next exit. We’re goin’ to Sioux Falls.”  
   
“Are the girls okay?” Sam asks at the same time Cas asks, “Is Claire alright?”  
   
“They’re good,” Dean says, sending a text to Mary, “We’re just going to visit. We should do that more often, y’know? Just go visit them without using a hunt as an excuse.”  
   
Sam casts a glance in Dean’s direction. “You sure you’re fine?”  
   
Dean grins at him. “Never better.” He sends one last text. “Mom says ‘hi’, by the way. She’s gonna meet us there in a day or two, so we’re gonna get two motel rooms. You’re sharing with mom.”  
   
“What? Why—” Sam starts, and then stops, catching sight of Cas in the rearview. “Oh. Nevermind.”  
   
Waggling his eyebrows, Dean locks Sam’s phone screen, then clumsily clambers over the back of the front seat. He lands in a heap, head in Cas’s lap. He grins up at him. “Hey, Cas.”  
   
Cas raises an eyebrow. “Hello, Dean.”  
   
“Mind if I sleep here for a bit?” Dean asks.  
   
Cas lets out a puff of air and gives Dean a fond look. “Be my guest.”  
   
“Thanks.” Dean shifts to get comfortable, then remembers the phone in his hand. “Oh.” He sits up and leans over the seat to push it into Sam’s chest pocket. “You got a call to make, when we get to Jody’s.”  
   
“To who?” Sam asks, sounding puzzled.  
   
“I think Eileen would love to hear from you,” Dean says, “Shouldn’t keep a girl waitin’, Sammy.”  
   
It’s with a flare of pride that Dean watches Sam’s face turn red.  
   
“S-shut up,” Sam stutters.  
   
Dean lays back in the seat again, head resting on Castiel’s thigh. Cas smiles down at him and tentatively runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, despite the dried blood and sweat. Dean takes Cas other hand and entwines their fingers. He closes his eyes, and wonders if they should get a dog.  
   


FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed. Thank you for reading! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡⋆


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